A Home's Secret
by Cinnamon Pixi Stix
Summary: Before succumbing to the darkness, which clawed at the edge of his vision, he could have sworn he saw a young man with long cornsilk hair peeking at him with laughing mercury eyes. Disclaimer: Do not own HP universe or characters.
1. Prologue

In the distance a memory remains  
Of a cruel past. Vicious reminder.  
Its past is etched in the stone,  
Denial cannot heal despair.  
No amount of apologies can reverse  
the hands of time. Awaken to truth.  
Alone with silence for a century  
Or more. Frigid solitude.  
Until a stranger entered the memory  
unknowing of the history. Unbiased.  
The silence is shattered, but  
shards still remain. Piercing.  
A story needs to be told of  
a Light extinguished: Forgotten...


	2. Chapter 1

Bracing himself for what he may find, the boy opened the door and walked into the room. The musky scent of mold and dust tickled his nose as his eyes squinted in the darkness. Groping at the air, he stepped further into the unknown. A sudden pain in his shin made her wince. _'So much for not running into anything_,' he thought.

Running his hands along what he bumped into, he discovered it was a table. Carefully feeling along the top, he found a candle and a holder. Delighted, the boy reached into his pocket and withdrew his lighter, mentally reprimanding himself for not remembering it sooner. He flicked the lighter and the sudden brightness caused him to flinch. Blinking rapidly to clear his eyes, he focused on the candle and lit the wick. The warm glow from the flame illuminated the room. Glancing down at the table the boy spotted two more candles and quickly lit them as well.

The darkness that cloaked the room, receded, exposing the details of the room. He was in a study of sorts. One wall was made up entirely of bookcases and was packed with aged books. In front of him was a desk. It seemed the table he ran into was really a large desk. The dark wood was covered in dust and ancient wax from candles. On the desk there was an inkwell and a quill draped in cobwebs next to a piece of parchment. The only words on the page were the date: April 23, 1676.

Glancing to the other side of the room, the boy noticed the large fireplace. It was stone and blackened from its many years and its frequent use. There was an overstuffed chair situated in front of the fire and a small ornate rug next to the hearth. Strolling towards the chair he knelt down onto the rug and held the candle into the fireplace. There were still logs in it.

Quickly, he went back to the desk and rummaged around for some blank parchment. After unsuccessfully trying to force the first two draws open, he managed to open the last draw. A large stack of blank parchment greeted him. Taking a few sheets from the top he went back to the fire and knelt down before it. Scrunching up the pages the boy placed them in between the logs. Withdrawing his lighter he lit the corner of one of the pages. The ancient paper immediately incinerated and the old, dry logs had no trouble taking the fire. Light instantly began bouncing off the walls, dancing with the shadows.

The boy sat back on his feet and swiftly stood. Taking in the chair he paused for a moment before flopping onto it. A massive cloud of dust arose causing him to cough and sneeze. Holding his hand to his chest wheezing, he raised watering eyes up. As his eyes cleared and his wheezing lessened, the boy caught sight of the large painting above the fireplace. The light wasn't bright enough for him to make out many details, but he could tell it was a young man with long cornsilk hair that was tied back. He was wearing a loose fitting white shirt tucked into riding pants and boots. The flickering light obscured any other distinguishing feature.

Turning away from the painting the boy settled into the chair, shuffling around and getting comfortable. After a few moments of shifting and finding the perfect position, he relaxed. Watching the fire burn he allowed the warmth to rush over him. The cracking and popping of the fire as well as the soothing heat lulled him to the edge of consciousness. Before succumbing to the darkness, which clawed at the edge of his vision, he could have sworn he saw a young man with long cornsilk hair peeking at him with laughing mercury eyes.

Silence. It has been his only companion for as long as he could remember. The nothingness that was his existence embodied the silence, until the day he arrived.

The roar of an engine shattered the quiet, boring serenity of his being. Startled by the abrupt and unexpected noise, he jumped and rushed to the window. A little green car was making its way down the driveway. Intrigued by the sudden intrusion he waited and watched.

The car came to a stop in front of the house and a young man stepped out. He had shaggy shoulder length ebony hair and emerald eyes. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with a pair of sneakers. Closing the door to the car, the boy went to the trunk and withdrew two large suitcases. Slamming the trunk, he lugged the suitcases to the front door, pausing once to adjust his grip.

Not wanting to lose sight of his quarry, he followed him to the entryway. He tailed him as the boy investigated his house, occasionally laughing as the other stumbled into rooms with stubborn doors. As he found one of the bedrooms and threw his bags in it, he smiled while the other stretched in relief. He continued observing him as the young man took in his home. Finally, he noticed the boy had made his way to his domain.

Smiling, as the boy took a deep breath and braced himself to open his door. It revealed its contents with relative ease. Silently, he snickered as the young man flailed about in the darkness until he hit the desk. As the other occupant lit the candles, he settled next to his portrait. He watched him find the fireplace and was a slightly miffed when the boy savagely tore into his desk and stole his parchment. He soon forgot his anger as a coughing fit sounded from below him. The boy was covered in dust and wheezing after flinging himself onto the chair.

Chuckling he was startled when the young man looked up at him, only to realize he was looking at the painting. As the other man turned away and got comfortable in his chair, he climbed down and crouched down in front of him. Seeing the boy's eyes droop he peered into his face. The other man smiled at him before his eyes closed and he smiled back. Reaching out to touch his dust ridden hair, he grinned again as the boy leaned toward his hand. The silence may be gone but what he gained was far more interesting.


	3. Chapter 2

Shivering with cold as a breeze brushed his face, the boy huddled for warmth. He was not yet ready to encounter the morning, but quickly found his arms did not possess the necessary amount of heat to lull him back into sleeps embrace. Huffing with distaste he regretfully opened his eyes, only to be confronted with an unfamiliar room. Disoriented, the boy looked wildly around the room catching sight of the fireplace and desk, which triggered his memories of the night before to sluggishly return.

The study was still dark, but it carried a hazy hue from the blocked sunlight. Last night, the boy hadn't noticed the large window with the thick violet drapes behind the desk. Extracting his body from the chair, he winced as his sore muscles protested the sudden movement. The boy rubbed his stiff neck as he navigated his way to the drapes. Pulling them open he instinctively stepped back as the brilliant light poured into the room.

With watery eyes, the boy had his first look at the room in proper lighting. It was dusty. The former glory of the room could still be seen, but faintly, muted. The books shelves were in disarray but still proudly shown their majestic qualities. They stretched from the ceiling to the floor and were filled past capacity. The same dark wood of the desk was used in their construction, giving the room a theme. The violet of the drapes also wove its way into the room in other places. The rug by the fireplace carried the violet tones as well as a crimson companion. The overstuffed chair copied the dark wood in its legs and bore the crimson proudly on its body. With a little work, the room could be magnificent again.

Looking over to the fireplace, he noticed the portrait from the night before. The details of the painting were clearly visible now and the boy was struck with déjà vu as he stared back at laughing mercury eyes. The young man looked to be in his early twenties and seemed to be staring at him. His striking cornsilk hair was swept behind him with a tie and his hand was stroking a hound by his side. In the background of the painting, loomed the house the boy was staying in looking newly constructed. Bringing his eyes to the young man, the boy thought of how he looked familiar, but couldn't place where he had seen him before. Looking the bottom of the frame he saw the young man's name inscribed on a small gold plaque: Draco Malfoy. The name still didn't the boy recall where he knew the young man. Frustrated with his inability to call forth how he knew the boy, he left the room, leaving the door opened behind him.

Walking down the hallway, he tried to find his way back to the bedroom he threw his stuff in yesterday. After a few unsuccessful attempts, he managed to find it. Locating his suitcases, he opened one to get a change of clothes, needing to be rid of the dust that accumulated on him. Pushing the cover off he found nothing inside. Panicking he opened the other suitcase to find it empty as well. Looking around the room he tried to find where his clothes could've gone, and the only place left to look was in the corner armoire. Rushing over to it, he threw open the doors and saw all his clothes. Everything was folded and hung up depending on the article of clothing.

Stepping away from the armoire, he started looking wildly around. _'How did my clothes get in there?'_ he thought, _'I know I didn't put them in there last night. There is no possible way I put them there, but if I didn't_...' He continued to look around as if whomever did it would jump out and tell him. The room remained unchanging and silent, revealing nothing. Shaking, the boy 

backed up until he made it to the bed and sat down. Placing his face into his hands, the boy forgot about getting changed and focused on what was changing instead.

A few weeks had passed since the armoire incident and the boy was getting scared. The strange things hadn't stopped with the armoire. He had been woken up in the middle of the night a few days ago because the water in the bathroom had turned on. Another time when he was tidiying the study, he had placed his cleaning supplies on the desk and turned to open the curtains. When he had turned around and reached for the supplies, they weren't there. Looking around the desk, the boy found them on the floor on the opposite side of the desk. Unable to calm himself he had fled the room, leaving the supplies in there. Other small things had been occuring too, like lights flickering and odd banging noises. He brushed them off thinking it was the old house and comforted by the fact that it was supposed to make noise. But the other, larger things were starting to worry him.

He had traveled into the town last week, seeking information about the history of the house. Hopefully it would give him some answers about what was happening. The boy was not a firm believer in the supernatural, but the current happenings had made him question his beliefs more than ever. In the town, he headed over to the library in order to search the archives. The boy was directed to the third floor by the librarian and was told where to look.

The archives were dusty and the musky scent of old paper hung in the air. Settling down, he began his search. Article after article he browsed through without turning anything up. Hours had passed and the boy was becoming restless and discouraged. He was just about to give up when he found a small article about the house. Ecstatic the boy deoured the words. The house was built in 1660 by Lucius Malfoy. He and his wife, Narcissa, lived there with their son, Draco. Mr. Malfoy was the heir to the Malfoy line, which had done well in earilier years. By the time the house was built, the family still had a small fotune to spare. However, that small fortune was quickly used up. In his old age, Mr. Malfoy had become engrossed with a rebellion and funded the leader with his fortune. In 1676, the entire Malfoy family was found dead, murdered in their own home. There was no explaination for the murders and no suspects were ever questioned. Mr. Malfoy was 45, his wife 39, and his son 19.

Disturbed by what he had just found, the boy tried to find more information about the family. There was none. It seemed as if the Malfoy's had been all but erased from the town history. Frowning, he made his way to the librarian.

"May I help you?" the librarian asked looking at the boy.

"I hope so. I was wondering if you could tell me where I could find any information about the Malfoy family?" the boy replied. The librarian gave her a sharp glare before responding.

"There is no Malfoy family as far as this town is concerned and if you keep going around asking questions, you're going to stir up more trouble than you ever wanted, " and with that statement, the librarian promptly ignored the boy. Startled by the retort, the boy quickly left the library and 

headed back to his house.

Now, he was sitting in the study flipping through one of the books he had been dusting off. He had been working in here lately hoping to return the room to its former glory. Despite being terrified in there a few days ago, he couldn't seem to stay away from the room. Something drew him to it. Anyway, the book he was reading seemed to be a diary of sorts and it belonged to Draco Malfoy. It wasn't the most exciting read that had ever caught his interest but it did shed some light onto the Malfoy family.  
The boy had found out that Mr. Malfoy had made enemies of almost every family in town. The only ones that didn't despise the family, weren't worth mentioning. It had become such a problem the Malfoy's were afraid to leave their home. Mr.Malfoy refused to withdraw from the rebel group despite the pleadings from his wife and son. If anything, their pleadings seemed to egg him on according to Draco and he was starting to resent his father as well. He spent many hours holed up in his father's study writing and reading. Draco confessed that while he resented his father, he was begining to worry for his safety as well. There had been vicious rumors of an attack on the family circulating in town and he doesn't know what to make of them. He could only hope his father didn't anger them anymore than he already had. There was no where else for them to go.

The diary stopped at that point and there were no other entries. Placing the book down on the desk the boy's eyes were drawn to the painting above the fireplace. Walking over, the boy gazed at the portrait of the young man. Staring into the mercury eyes of the portrait he couldn't help but voice his thoughts, "How did you die?"

"I was murdered as you know," came a voice from behind him. Tensing, the boy slowly turned around only to become locked into the same mercury gaze he had just left. Standing before him was the same young man from the portrait leaning casually on the crimson chair. Gaping openly at him, the boy was startled when Draco began speaking again.  
"I've been trying to talk to you for ages, but you never stopped to listen before. I'm Draco, and I never quite caught your name, what is it?" he asked stepping closer to the boy and cocking his head to the side. Shocked, the boy responded in the only way he knew how, he fainted.


	4. Chapter 3

Sighing, Draco crouched down to look over the boy and make sure he didn't hurt himself. Seeing no injuries but a bump to the head, he strolled over to the chair and sat down to wait for him to wake up. He had been waiting weeks for this opportunity and he wasn't about to let it go to waste. He hadn't been lying when he told the boy he had been trying to talk to him for ages. He'd been moving his things to draw the boy's attention to him, but the skittish boy had always fled before he could manifest himself. He had even demoted himself to making noises in the night. It was undignified and it didn't work.

Getting comfortable in his old chair, Draco wondered how he had come to need the help of a boy, not much younger than himself, to set him free. Then he remembered. Dear father had angered the wrong people and now he, Draco, was paying for it. Still disgruntled by the fact, Draco huffed and crossed his arms with his face stuck in a pout. Below him, the boy began to stir and slowly awaken. Straightening himself up, he watched the boy sit up and rub the back of his head where he knew there was a bump. Deciding to remind him of his presence, he spoke.

"Are you alright? You took a nasty fall when you fainted, which I might add was very rude, seeing how you never answered my question." The boy's head whipped so quickly to him that he was surprised the young man's head didn't fall off. He stared wordlessly at Draco for a few moments before shaking his head.

"I must be dreaming. I'm overtired and I was reading about the Malfoy's before I fell asleep and the information must have manifested itself into a dream. That's all. So if I close my eyes I'll wake up and this'll be a fleeting memory." The boy closed his eyes and kept them like that for a few moments before opening them and peering back at Draco. He watched his eyes widen as the boy noticed him still there. He smiled and waved.

"I'm not going anywhere until you talk to me for a bit. It's been a long time since I've had anyone to talk to, and I'm sure you have questions for me. But before you start asking them will you tell me your name?"

The boy stared at him for a minute before sighing and responding. "My name is Harry, and I think I'm going crazy."

"Harry. Hmm, never met a Harry before, and you're not going crazy. If you were then it would mean I am too because I'm the one you're talking to, and I like to think I'm sane," Draco retorted kneeling down beside him on the floor. Harry stared at him incredulously.

"It doesn't matter if you're sane. You're dead."

"Yes this is true, but I still have feelings and you still have questions," he lounged back on his hands and turned his head towards him. "What do you want to know?"

Draco smiled to himself once again as he noticed the boy's bewilderment. He knew he was being unorthodox, but he didn't really want to continue to talk about trivial things. He wanted to get right to the matter at hand. The sooner Harry understood, the sooner he could help him.

This was just not his day, Harry mused as he stared at the ghost in front of him. All his beliefs about the supernatural, well his non belief, had been destroyed resolutely. He could not fathom that the young man in front of him was there actually speaking to him. It made no sense. Getting a headache, Harry rubbed his temples before stealing another glance at the young man in front of him.

Draco didn't look like any kind of ghost he had heard about. Weren't ghosts supposed to be transparent, rattling chains, and bemoaning their lives? But this one here was lounging quite contentedly, looking quite solid, and a little annoyed, while staring at him. His corn silk hair caught the light while his mercury colored eyes were shadowed by the fall of those fine hairs. The only give away that Draco was not of this time period, were his clothing. They were definitely dated.

"Yes, I know I am very interesting to look at but can we please move along," Draco interrupted, sounding as irritated as he looked. Harry paused in his observation of the anomaly to look him in the face. Seeing the angry scowl pasted there he blurted, "What?"

"Can we please move on from here? It's not that easy to manifest myself and I'd like to get something productive done today."

"How long can you stay that way?" Harry inquired, genuinely interested.

"About an hour maximum and it's already been half an hour. I don't have much more time."

"Does it take a long time to, err… recharge?"

"A few hours. Now, do you have any questions for me? I know you've been researching the house, and you've read my journal, but I don't know what you know exactly," Draco said wanting to get down to business.

"About as much as was in your journal really and the fact that you were murdered. Your family is not in the town records at all other than the brief mentioning. When I asked the librarian for more information on the Malfoys, she gave me a dirty look before dismissing me with a threat. What did your family do to be erased from the town history?"

Draco sighed, looking weary and running his hands through his long hair. He was starting to look less solid and more transparent as Harry spoke of the town records.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by this, after my father joined the rebellion the town didn't care much for us. I had hoped you had learned more than through the town archives, but it just isn't the case." Draco looked down at his hands, which drew Harry's sight to the rapid loss of substance they acquired.

"I truly wanted to get more done today, but it seems we'll have to continue this at a later time," at this point Draco was no more than a faint torso and head and the volume of his voice was decreasing as well.

"Wait! What was the name of the rebellion your father was a part of? Maybe it's in the archives, I mean it seems to have been a big part of the town at one point," Harry frantically asked, unnerved by Draco's floating head.

Draco's head faded from his view but not before his last words reached his ears, "De…ath Eat..ers."


	5. Chapter 4

Harry sighed in frustration and grabbed his bedraggled hair before running his hands over his tired face. Once again he was in the library archive looking for information regarding the past tenants of his home. It had been two days since he had seen Draco, and the bothersome ghost hadn't reappeared yet. There was only so much he could look up regarding Death Eaters without any knowledge of the group. The only useful information Harry managed to scrounge up was the name of the leader of the group, Voldemort, but even that tidbit fell short. It was an alias with no written record of the man's given name.

Deciding to call it quits for the day, Harry closed the large volume while hoisting himself from the chair. Brushing the dust from his clothing, he left the room and started towards the doors. Before he reached the doors, he checked the loan desk to make sure the intimidating librarian was no where in sight. He was lucky when he came in this morning; she was re-shelving books and didn't even glance at him. It seemed luck was on his side today for she wasn't there. Not wanting to jinx himself, Harry quickly left the building.

On his way home, he let his mind wander. How did he end up in a situation like this? Trying to help a ghost find closure about his death, spending more than a healthy amount of time in the dust ridden archive looking for any hints possible to help Draco, referring to a ghost by name? Harry wasn't sure if he had really gone crazy. His whole world had been turned on its head. Nothing he used to believe seemed right anymore, while everything that was impossible thrived. It didn't seem right. But it was his life right now. He was beginning to wish he had never left Surrey. Harry sighed. No, staying in Surrey wasn't an option anymore, not after what had happened.

A short month ago, life seemed carefree and light. There in was the trap. Nothing was carefree and light. Harry learned this that night. He had been home watching television when there was a knock on the door. Puzzled he went to the door and opened it. His heart dropped when he saw an officer standing there.

"Mr. Potter?" the burly officer asked in a deep baritone.

"Yes, I'm him."

"I am sorry to inform you that there has been an accident." Harry felt his heart plummet to his feet and his whole body seemed to be cloaked in ice. The officer plowed on, "You're mother and father have been in a car accident and were transported to the hospital to treat their injuries."

"Are they ok? Please tell me they're alright!" Harry shouted clinging desperately to the officer's hand.

"I'm sorry, son, they both died in transport."

Harry's mind and body shut down at the same time as if someone had flicked a switch in his brain. The light usually seen in the verdant eyes was extinguished. He couldn't feel his body. His mind was moving too sluggishly to comprehend the matter at hand. His wonderful mother, with her fiery red hair and the same eyes he saw in the mirror, couldn't be gone. He doting father, with his wicked sense of humor and wild look he inherited, was still alive. It was a mistake. No one could take them away. They were too young to pass. He was too young to have them pass.

A drop of water fell on his hand. Where did that come from? He brought his hands to his face and noticed he was crying. He also noticed he was on his knees in the threshold of the door. He didn't remember falling. He looked up to see the officer looking at him.

"Are you going to be alright son?" Harry flinched at the term. The term he would never hear again falling from his father's lips.

"Yeah." He croaked after a moment, not believing it for a second.

The house loomed in front of him. He hadn't noticed he had arrived. Turing off the car he headed into the house. The old front door creaked to a close behind him. It was silent. No one moving about, no one making dinner, no one watching television, no life at all. Feeling worn out from his emotional remembrance, Harry headed to his bedroom, his footfalls echoing behind him in the lonely house. On his way to his room, he passed by the study. The door was ajar.

Without realizing it, he made his way into the room and stopped by the hearth. On autopilot, he started a fire with the recently cut wood. Positioning himself in the armchair, Harry watched the flames devour the wood. He couldn't remember how long he stared into dancing flames before resting his eyes and slowly letting sleep take him. He never noticed he was crying.

Draco watched Harry fall asleep in the light of the fire from the mantel. He saw the boy's tears, glistening like jewels, fall. He didn't know what caused the boy to cry, only that he didn't like it. Floating from his perch, Draco settled himself on the arm of the chair. Brushing the boy's dark locks out of the way, he wiped the tears from his face.

He wanted to talk to Harry today about his research, but it seemed he would have to wait. Not that he minded, he'd been waiting centuries for his secret to be found. He could wait a few more hours for the boy to wake.

Placing himself back on the mantel, he watched the boy sleep. Waiting for his opportunity to talk to him. Maybe if he was patient, the boy would reveal the cause of his tears. If he didn't, Draco would just have to use another means to find out.


End file.
